I feel wrong for every time I’ve said
I’d fallen in love. It seems to always have been desperation to have a female
near me. Still, all the women who fell below my body are remembered differently.
Some were a conquest. A simple means to feel bare and I’m sure now that they
invited the challenge as well. Others were only a staggering advance in the wan
light of convenience. The last increasingly minute and exclusive group were a
true aspiration in which I saw us sliding through the sheets towards evocative futures
dolled up in idealism. Regardless, it was an idealism I thought could occur.
Aside from all these, one in
particular is included in none of these sects: a puerile girl who put on
make-up too early. She is too far off in the past to drink herself away from
it. She is too locked in the gaze of the mirror. She is too sealed in the
public eye, because if she calmed, what storm would there be for the masses of
erections to stare at? Her translucent jar keeps enough mystery to entrance,
but not enough visibility to entertain. With this one, I cheated myself into trusting
I was more than another begging erection. I could have loved her, but I’d have
to share her with the mirror and I see all the faces.
I talk and receive similar stories
in response: everyone fragmented from tumbling after the boulder, trying to
convince Sisyphus to stop his trudging and enjoy the trees around him. He responds
with a story of a woman who ran off with his best friend. He says that his
boulder is his sanity. He says that his boulder is the same as us doing the dishes
to keep our minds away from it. We all then shuffle backwards as he moves his
weight out from behind it. The earth shakes as his boulder chases gravity again,
because even the most pragmatic among us still make wishes when the clock
speaks of doubled numbers.
